


iskat

by cyrusbarrone



Series: Captain America/Man from U.N.C.L.E crossover [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, De-Serumed Steve Rogers, M/M, Maybe part three, Mission Fic, The Shark Affair, the napollya is eventually going to happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 18:21:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5427059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyrusbarrone/pseuds/cyrusbarrone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya Kuryakin, now agent at the U.N.C.L.E goes on a mission with agent Napoleon Solo. Together they threaten a boat with bombs and separately Illya mourns Bucky Barnes being taken back by HYDRA.</p>
            </blockquote>





	iskat

**Author's Note:**

> Part two of the crossover. I think there may be on final part after this. Expect more Steve Rogers and maybe some Gaby, if you're lucky. 
> 
> I apologise if the title is poor Russian, it is meant to be 'to search'.

Where once it had been unheard of for the KGB to join forces with alternative agencies, it now appeared to be common. It was as though with the end of the Second World War the KGB were slipping in their power and would cling and subjugate to whoever seemed most powerful at the time. Where once it had been an organization by the name of HYDRA, it was now the American CIA. Where Sergey said they were needed as their agency, all Illya saw it as was the KGB becoming the CIA's bitch as they had before with HYDRA.

Still, his and Solo's compatibility as partners had proved successful. Anything was a success when compared to the Ranskahov mission, Illya thought bitterly. The KGB had loosened their grip on Illya as had the CIA with Solo (though Illya knew that Napoleon feared their hands around his tether would one day yank and he would not be able to fight against it).

Through the compatibility of their originally opposing sides and the side of Britain, too, came the formation of the U.N.C.L.E. The missions provided them with hundreds of covers and new lives to lead and satisfaction in the knowing that lives were saved because of it. (No matter how many lives Illya became shrouded in, they never truly covered the guilt of letting Bucky Barnes disappear back into the ranks of HYDRA). 

Miss Teller, at current, was at the New York head quarters. He and Napoleon were in Calais looking into oddly specified kidnappings. So far the mission had mainly been talking, leaving Illya sitting back in his chair and watching the ladies swoon at the smooth tone of Solo's voice and the lilt of his eyes. It was tiresome. 

Illya didn't have a knack for words and Napoleon was outgoing in his confidence and suave. He'd lean over and wipe a hand on girls' damp cheeks and mumble in that stupid accent of his. 

After arranging to meet a Mrs Marley the agents had settled into a nice riverside cafe. The walls were painted what he supposed was a sunny yellow and the tables were battered looking and held mugs of coffee and tea well, if a little bit shakily. Napoleon delighted himself in ordering both of their drinks and pastries, putting on the suave smile as he spoke to the silly waitress in her blouse and black skirt. 

"You've tried croissants, I assume?" Napoleon had questioned, lounging back like a cat in his chair. He'd run his eyes over the blank expression of his partner before letting our easy laughter. "Well you shall!"

Illya had waved him off brusquely. He didn't much care for the French cuisine whereas Napoleon rejoiced in it and frantically cooked up delicacies that were forced upon Illya by the spoonful. He was sick of garlic and sick of France. Illya longed for their mission to end so that U.N.C.L.E let him back in the cold arms of Soviet Russia where he could continue his search for HYDRA and their captive Bucky Barnes. 

"C'est bon," said Napoleon. The waitress had returned and placed little tea cups onto the table and cracked china covered in flakes of pastry. "Merci, mademoiselle."

The waitress blushed and scuttled off. Illya glared at her underneath the brim of his hat while Napoleon organised the table. Both had matching beverages and different pastries. The one offered to him was the shape of a C and was a buttery colour; next to it was a little pot of strawberry jam and some butter too. Napoleon had a square of the same pastry with chocolate oozing from either end. 

"Go on," encouraged Napoleon. He was cutting a knife down the middle of his pastry and chocolate stained his fingers. "I think you'll find it quite delicious."

Illya stared down at the silly pastry, and then towards his watch. Mrs Marley was already ten minutes late and he was growing impatient behind his curiosity. "How long is she going to be?" 

The whole mission, in briefing with Waverley, had seemed altogether rather simple. People were going missing and they were to find out why and where to. After investigating five days they'd discovered that people that were experts in their trade had been slipping under the radar, and later they were followed by their family, too. Mrs Marley was the wife of a successful wine taster who had gone missing a couple of weeks previous; she was coming to them with a letter she'd received which may give them further intel. 

Waverley had promised them a break after this mission. Illya supposed that was why it was dragging on so much. He was to head to Russia the day afterwards and, with the help of another russian operative, try to relocate the base of HYDRA. Upon finding it U.N.C.L.E would employ and he'd get poor Bucky Barnes to the Steve he had kissed and grinned at.

It would sit in his mind forever until then. 

"I've not a clue," Napoleon said. He tilted his head and smirked, nudged Illya's plate with the flat of his butter knife. "You're not worried are you, Peril?"

He picked up the pastry and tore it in half. He ate one piece plain before dropping the other back to its bed of flakes. "No. We are wasting time."

Napoleon popped the rest of his pastry into his mouth before running his thumb over his bottom lip where some chocolate had smeared. Illya looked away, cheeks going a little red. Since the mission with HYDRA and the happy mouth of Bucky Barnes pushing against his, Illya could only see men in the light he was supposed to see women. It didn't help that Napoleon was near to burst with confidence and lure.

"If Mrs Marley isn't here in, say, five minutes we can assume the meeting is off," reasoned Napoleon. "Either that means she doesn't intend to give us information anymore or she has been taken like her husband."

Illya glanced down to his watch. It was still a little worse for wear; the face had a tiny crack on and the casing was scratched from the time it had been taken. He ran a finger over the face and read the time. Five minutes was reasonable, if she didn't show they could go to her apartment and search for clues. Illya wasn't sure when his life had gone from hunting down people that his agency (or indeed the agency that the KGB had knelt for) opposed; to looking for /clues/.

Illya wasn't sure if he missed it per say. There was the bravado of working for the KGB, of course, but there had been the nasty jobs too. There hadn't been partners save for one, and he'd been thankful for that because he worked better alone. He didn't like emotional attachments that came with partners, he liked them less now despite having two. 

Napoleon and Gaby were different from Bucky, though. They'd been through the missions on their own will; gotten to voice their opinions and make their own decisions. Bucky Barnes hadn't got that. He'd been reduced to a machine without even the allowance of a name. Whatever was left of Barnes inside the shell they called the Asset was so confused and twisted Illya would be amazed if he ever recovered truly. Losing Barnes had confirmed all the unappealing attributes that he'd tied in with having a partner; it was worse that it still plagued his mind, even in the midst of a mission or interrogation there was a little bit stored for Barnes.

A hand snapped in front of his eyes. 

"What is it?" Asked Napoleon, voice a whisper. "Your eyes just went blank. Your finger's tapping. I don't recall saying anything entirely agitating."

Illya looked down to his hand. It shook a little against his thigh and the index finger tapped softly. He clenched his hand into a fist, glaring down at it. "Nothing. Am fine." 

Napoleon gave him a wary look. He leant back once more in the little wooden chair, and straightened the lapels on his jacket. "Wonderful," he said, smiling once more. The chatter of the cafe was growing in the heat of the day. "Because I've spotted Mrs Marley."

Mrs Marley wore a plain blue dress which came to just below her knee. The fit was tight and there was a band of white down the left hand side dress and her hair was red and cut in a cropped bob around her chin. The sunglasses she wore reminded him of Gaby in their large size and ridiculous decor. She lifted a careful hand to her sunglasses and pulled them down her nose, looking over the top.

Napoleon was off his feet. He walked over to her with a neat swagger and rested a hand on her wrist. Illya didn't much move, he cleaned his fingers on a napkin and crossed his arms over his stomach. They would be over soon after Napoleon had made her cheeks blush with red and her ego bloat. It wouldn't be long. 

When they eventually wandered through the cafe - moving lazily as though the whole day had been put aside for their meeting, Illya waited. The longer they took to walk through the bustle of the cafe the more Illya's fingers tapped on his thigh.

"Mrs Marley this is my partner Illya Kuryakin," introduced Napoleon. Illya stood and shook her hand politely. She looked over her glasses, eyes glancing upwards and mouth tilting appreciatively. 

"A pleasure," she smiled. 

Napoleon pulled a seat out for her and smiled over at the little waitress from earlier. "Some tea?" He asked Mrs Marley. "Pastry?"

She sat on the chair and removed her sunglasses, folding in the arms before placing them into the centre of the table. She held her purse in her lap. Her eyes flickered over Illya at Napoleon's question. She met his eyes and it was like she suddenly knew everything; she knew about Bucky and his longing to find him and she knew about the way he'd stare a little too long at Napoleon. She knew it all. A little smile played on her lips. "No, no," she deflected. "I've wasted enough of your time."

Illya's finger stopped its tapping. He would smile at her but he felt Napoleon would notice and make accusations. Or worse he'd smirk knowingly and try and push them to one another. He looked at her and gave the tiniest of nods. 

During the interview, Illya didn't talk much. Napoleon and Mrs Marley spoke like someone at a confessional booth. A new pot of tea was brought to the table at Napoleons command. Illya found himself staring our of the open front of the cafe, once again sinking into the realms of his own mind. He pondered about U.N.C.L.E and if he should tell them about HYDRA and Bucky. In the obvious means that it would help his hunt it would have been better to tell them, but he also thought about it in the terms of Bucky too. He knew U.N.C.L.E weren't an explicitly bad organisation but he wondered that if they found someone - no if Illya handed them someone - like Bucky would they want to know how his memories had been repressed? Wouldn't they want to know more than a formal interview, such as the one Napoleon was conducting, could give? 

As he blinked back to reality, a figure clad in black walked brusquely out of the view of the window. 

Illya squinted but did nothing else to discern them. 

Soon after he'd clocked back into the conversation it was ending. He had caught brief snippets of the conversation but he knew that Napoleon would fill him in on it anyway.

"It's been a pleasure," said Napoleon, ducking his head and kissing Mrs Marley's hand. She still wore the ring from her husband. "Thank you for your help. An agent will be sent to you in a few hours."

Mrs Marley smiled at the pair of them before taking back her hand and holding it on her purse. "Of course," she smiled and then turned to Illya. "I do hope you find who you're looking for, Mr Kuryakin."

Something told him she didn't mean her husband. 

He smiled stiffly, nodded his head. Napoleon was looking between them a little surprised and perhaps a little offended that he'd spent so long coddling Mrs Marley and now she was just speaking to Illya. He hoped it would knock Napoleon's confidence a peg.

"Thank you," said Illya. 

Then Mrs Marley picked up her ridiculous sunglasses and placed them on her nose before she nodded and disappeared into the bustle of the French cafe. Illya remained standing up, just bending to pick up his jacket, but he was glad to leave the sunny yellow cafe. Napoleon needed to inform him on the interview and they needed to find these people, sooner rather than later. 

-

It was night time and they were pinpointing the location those missing had been taken to. It had been Illya who finally figured that these people could not be on land for the amount of people taken was exudanant and someone would have spotted them. So they were looking for a boat; perhaps an insignificant one that most would overlook. It felt awfully like the silly Vinciguerra boat. 

The ticket later sent to Mrs Marley proved the boat idea but it gave no name; simply said that transport would be sent on a certain time and date. It changed the operation slightly; they were going voluntarily.

It didn't mean the case was being dropped by U.N.C.L.E. Indeed there was more of an urge to find the damn boat now. 

An agent was going to go in the place of Mrs Marley and they would wear his tracking devices so that he and Napoleon could follow at a later date.

Really it was such a all a good idea that Illya could picture it going disastrously wrong. Things often did with Napoleon Solo, he was a terrible spy after all.

"  
Mrs Marley was set to be picked up late tomorrow morning. Napoleon and Illya were stationed in a house opposite hers, looking out for any suspicious looking subjects. The room was rather small, a little girls room, with pale green walls and a bed with a stuffed bear. It was quiet and dark for a long time, Illya had an elbow leant against his knee and binoculars occasionally flipped up to his eyes. Napoleon was reclined next to him, looking relaxed in his blue suit and what looked like a little glass of whiskey.

"Can you not get drunk on job?" Illya asked, dropping his binoculars and glancing over at Napoleon.

Napoleon smirked, slopped his glass forwards so a little spilt over Illya's leg. His fingers clenched on the binoculars and Napoleon's smirk grew more infuriating by the second. "We're simply watching a house," Napoleon reminded. "It hardly takes much skill."

"But is important."

Napoleon shrugged. "I wouldn't say so. I might even say it is unnecessary. We know Mrs Marley is going to be taken tomorrow morning, there should be no reason for the kidnappers to change that."

Illya rolled his eyes and brought his binoculars back up to his eyes, scanning over the surrounding area. There was nothing until he reached the centre. He didn't need his binoculars for it and dropped them from his eyes, for standing right in the middle of the road was a man. He stared directly up at Illya, completely open. He was clad in a black jacket and trousers tucked into his boots, his hair was long - at least a little above his shoulders - and his eyes were smeared in black. What stood out most though was his left arm was entirely metal. 

He dropped the binoculars in shock. All this time considering heading to Russia to find Bucky Barnes and here the other had found him. He felt his stomach do somersaults and his heart squeeze uncomfortably and before he even realised it he was rushing from their perch. The steps between him and Bucky seemed to grow with each stride and by the time he'd descended the stairs at the back of the house, rushed over the wooden fence and into the front garden he was gone.

Gone. Just like that Bucky had disappeared. Again. Like before when poor Bucky Barnes had broken through the scrambled mind of the Asset and clung to the idea of a Steve Rogers and then lost the hold on reality and sunk back down. 

He'd broken his programming again. He must have.

Illya prowled to where he had stood and stared at the ground. There was a pothole the size of a fist. Proof, he thought crouching in front of it and putting his own fist in it. Bucky had left him proof it hadn't just been his head playing some sick illusion. 

"Illya!" shouted Napoleon. His shoes smacked the ground and a hand came to rest on Illya's shoulder and he turned around, feral, with a snarl.

How dare Napoleon break his moment?

"Woah," muttered Napoleon. He retracted his hand like someone who had been bitten by a dog. "What happened here, Peril?"

He supposed he shouldn't have been angry but he was. Napoleon didn't know but he should have done. Illya tore his eyes away from the pothole and pushed himself up. Little bits off gravel were stuck in his knuckles and a little dirt smeared over his thumb. 

"Surveillance is important," he reiterated, turning from the site his brainwashed partner had stood. Napoleon was frowning at him and it would have been comical in a different situation but now all Illya wanted to do was sock him in the jaw. 

"What happened?" Asked Napoleon again, going to run his hand over the pothole like it would give him clue.

Illya grabbed his shoulder and pushed him back from the pothole. He steered him back through the garden gate and into the covered area of the house. "Is not relevant," he dismissed, glancing back in hope. "If we cause any more scene kidnappers could be alerted."

Napoleon stared at him, his hair had fallen slightly from his quiff and his eyes were wide and questioning. "Who was at the pothole, Illya?" He asked, stern like. He sounded like a parent asking their kid to drop a stolen coin. "That reaction did not arise from a nobody."

He had a point. Illya should explain it to him but he didn't want to. Bucky was his. He was his little secret and his little mission on the side. Napoleon had no need for information on Bucky and he didn't want to give it to him. He knew that if he didn't the questioning may not stop, but he wouldn't tell. Maybe if Bucky showed up again, maybe then. 

"Is not relevant," he said once more, shoulders setting and readying for a fight. Maybe they would wrestle. "Forget it, Cowboy."

Surprisingly, he nodded and the topic was dropped. 

-

The next morning things were quiet between Napoleon and Illya. The surveillance ended a little after dawn, for there had been little to look at all night. Indeed, after coming in from seeing Bucky, Illya had only really been watching out for his partner. 

There had been no more signs that Bucky was around, but that didn't surprise Illya. Bucky, he assumed, was in hiding from HYDRA meaning that he'd got damned good at not being found. He supposed he should curse him for it but he was simply glad that it meant Bucky would not be pulled back to HYDRA easily. He had only been seen last night because he had wanted to be, and Illya accepted the fact that they were likely being tailed by him, giving he and Napoleon little to no control over the situation. Bucky was entirely in control of this game of hide and seek, and Illya was glad for him. 

He simply hoped he would get to speak to Bucky next time. Perhaps he could hold that awful cold hand and kiss those smiling lips once again. Or perhaps he could just see him without the cover of night and a hundred or so yards. 

It was quarter to eleven when Mrs Marley left her house. With her she held a little bag filled with clothes and a tracker that had been sewn into its lining. The plan was to be put into place as originally thought. The abduction – as U.N.C.L.E insisted on still calling it – was still of top priority, no matter how much Illya wished to hunt down the hidden Bucky. Mrs Marley appeared calm when they took her. The car that collected her was a little Citroën 2CV with a red and white striped top and the same coloured paint work. If anyone of her neighbours had seen her slipping into that little car, they would have suspected, nor known, nothing. It was inconspicuous and Illya was impressed with the lengths that they had gone to make it look as normal of a taking as possible. 

The tracker was instantly turned on and Napoleon and Illya crouched over his tracking gear until an average idea of where they were to go appeared. They only left once the little dot had come to a solid stop. It was assumed that this was the boat, meaning that they were to leave as soon as possible so that they could slip onto the boat and evacuate those who had been taken. It was all idealistic, really, and Illya wanted it over with. As they drove – Napoleon was at the wheel, he had refused to sit in the same car as Illya if he were not the driver, for he said he doubted his driving would be good after the boat ride they had gone on together – Illya was distracted. Napoleon would try to talk to him every now and then, over the crackling of the tracking system, but once he got no response more than four times, his ego was suitably bruised and he gave up. 

The drive was fine, though Illya watched out for signs of a tail in the little side mirror of the van that they drove in. It was in vain, honestly, he doubted that Bucky would make it clear if he were trailing them. Illya wondered how long Bucky had known where he was and how long he had been watching them. Had he been scared off by Napoleon? It was a thought, not that the American oaf was particularly frightening, it was more the thought that he was someone whom Bucky did not recognise. He doubted that Bucky would link him to anyone as he had done with Illya and the mysterious Steve he had thought he was kissing. 

Still, he hoped, a little selfishly, perhaps, that Bucky would slip and Illya would catch a glint of sunlight from the metal arm in the rear view mirror.  
When they arrived at the port, Napoleon tried to speak to him once more. 

“Whatever happened last night, Illya, should be put behind you,” said Napoleon. He was looking over the top of his designer sunglasses much like Mrs Marley had done in the sunny little French café. Illya thought he looked faintly ridiculous considering they were on a mission, for he wore his blue suit with the checks and shoes he probably couldn’t run far in. “We shall focus on the taking of this boat, and then you can… find your late night visitor.”

Illya hated that he made it sound so crude, as though he’d pulled some girl back to their surveillance in some mess of desire. He hated the constant suggestive tone of Napoleon Solo and he tensed his jaw slightly at the way Napoleon insinuated things in his very being. 

“We are wasting time,” Illya interrupted. He climbed from the car and tucked his hands into the pockets of his jacket. The boat was sitting like a dot on the horizon and he knew that if they stood around lecturing one another, then it would soon be gone. He did not want to be correct on his assumption that the mission would drag on needlessly. “Boat is moving, remember?”

Napoleon looked as though he wanted to continue their little talk but Illya was already moving towards the boat which U.N.C.L.E had prepared for them in the harbour. Indeed, it was a little thing, a speed boat much like the one Illya had stolen at the Vinciguerra boat yard. He smirked a little when he hopped into it and took the seat behind the wheel. Napoleon, grudgingly, sat next to him. 

“At least this time you have seat,” mocked Illya. 

And then he started up the little speedboat and took them towards their destination. Napoleon did not make his usual patter of conversation as they hopped on the waves, and Illya was glad of the silence from his usually constantly talking partner. 

Soon they were next to the small tourist boat. It was large enough to hold about twenty or so guests in a large room. Illya couldn’t see why anyone would chose to abandon normal living for life on the sea, where one was often cramped in spaces with too many people that you could not escape from. It seemed like a horrible idea, especially if he were to consider it happening with Napoleon – though, he did think that if they were trapped with one another for too long he might accidently stare too long and give the damned cocky bastard something to smirk about. 

Anyway, one of their agents already on board the boat and posing as one of the ship’s crew helped them on board. (The agent had followed in a car behind Mrs Marley’s). The agent then hopped into their speedboat themselves, tilted their little white hat towards he and Napoleon before darting off. He darted across the waves like a little skipping stone. 

“What is plan?” asked Illya, pressing himself against the side of the boat and looking down at the choppy grey water separating France and England. 

He felt much like he had when pressed up against the gritty wall outside of the Ranskahov warehouse. This time, though, Napoleon stood in front instead of the blocky frame of the one that they had called Asset. 

“The plan, my friend, is that you go in the back and I the front,” said Napoleon, removing his sunglasses. He folded them and hung from the breast pocket of his suit jacket. “We find the ringleader of this entire enterprise, and then we get those who willingly came here back to their lives.”

Illya nodded and then the pair separated. Illya followed the curve of the boat until he got to the back of the deck. The inside of the boat was as cramped as he had imagined. He could hear the lull of people’s voices and he could hear fingers on piano keys, playing a melody that he had never heard before. There were men in the corridor he had entered, they were little white shorts and shirts and wore hats similar to their undercover agent. He smiled at them – Napoleon would have told him not to other, apparently his smile wasn’t convincing of a kind nature – before he stepped a little further in and grabbed the neck of the first.

He must admit he didn’t mind watching the heaviness of sleep come over the four men that had stood in his way. He grunted as he piled them into a little cupboard – he had to wedge a mop and a bucket back between the puzzle he had created on the unconscious bodies. 

Feeling a little more out of breath than he had at the beginning of the mission, Illya straightened the bottom of his black turtle neck and the strap of his father’s watch. Then he walked through the tiny corridor and through the door which advertised as being the main hall. As soon as he was in there he was surrounded by a gaggle of people dressed to the nines. Some sat at tables surrounded in expensive looking bottles of wine while others danced to the piano. 

Napoleon was stood on the stage and a light shone at him. He looked good up there his blue suit a little ruffled from, Illya supposed, a tussle with someone. He was speaking into a microphone and had a man standing next to him. From what he could see Napoleon was holding his wrists behind his back as he lectured the hall on moving back to the normal world. He spoke of how you couldn’t run from the real world, he spoke of several things and soon the group did not seem to want to leave. It was a paradise, Illya supposed, and soon, Napoleon was once again drowned out by the sounds of people having a good and glad time. 

It wasn’t going to work.

People, in their ignorance, were going to stay on the damn boat. And quickly, Illya found himself getting angry. His fingers began to shake and his expression turned bitter before settling firm into displeasure. He crunched his fingers into fists that hung by his thighs and tried to breathe through his annoyance, but it did not work. 

He hated the selfishness of these people. He hated how they were desperate for a life better than their tame, lovely lives. He hated it. How could they want something exciting and different when those who that were terribly unhappy and abused? How could they want more when Bucky Barnes had nothing? Bucky had been tortured into becoming a killer for a group that didn’t care for him in any means other than Frankenstein did for his monster. How could people be so ungrateful for their lives when there were those stuck in hiding just for survival?

And, in his anger, he forced himself through the crowds of laughing, jovial people and he pushed onto the stage. From Napoleon, he grabbed the microphone and pressed it to his mouth, 

“There are bombs!” he shouted, his voice conveying panic to solidify his lie. “Your Captain set them up. It was all plan to kill you.”

The room filled with cries of adept horror and within moments the groups of people in gowns and expensive suits scrambled at the doors. Illya wished there was a bomb. 

-

“It would not have been my choice of method,” said Napoleon from where he leant against the side of the van they had travelled to the port in. the boat had since been emptied of the indulged guests and U.N.C.L.E had been proud to say that it was their agents who had gotten the people off the boat. Waverly had given them both a smile and a clap on the back before he’d gone back to coordinating who went on which boat. “But, it worked well enough.”

Illya looked up to him irritably as he climbed from the van. They would still have to go and collect their things from the hotel room they had shared while conducting the many interviews to the left-behind families of those wanting luxury.

“You are right,” said Illya, hoisting his tracking bag onto his shoulder and making his way towards the entrance of the little French hotel. “My method actually worked.”

Napoleon followed behind him, protesting while Illya ignored him and entered the little hotel. It had been a nice hotel, despite its adamant French-ness. He hadn’t minded staying there too much; it had only really been a chore when he was being force fed cooked snails by Napoleon who could not cook French cuisine as well as he thought. He walked up the little white stairs and habitually ducked his head – for he had a little bruise forming on his forehead from where he had continually banged his head the first couple of days into being at the hotel. 

Once they were on the landing in front of their door, Napoleon brushed past him with his key and he pushed it into the lock. He twisted it and soon afterwards, a metal arm appeared and gripped tightly around Napoleon’s throat and he was pulled backwards into the room, his silly penguin shoes flailing and kicking out as he tried to wrestle from the – very literally – metal grip. 

“Illya!” shouted Napoleon, the door being pushed out of the way. 

Illya was kind of in a state of shock. On one side, he was glad to see that Bucky was here but maybe this was a suggestion that he hadn’t actually broken out of HYDRA’s bounds like Illya had originally thought. Was HYDRA plotting against U.N.C.L.E? But then it could also be Bucky being wary of the man that he did not recognise.

He followed the scrambling Solo into the hotel room. Bucky stood before him, his thick arm tight around Napoleon’s neck and a wide eyed look on his face. His hair was fallen back from his face as he had his head tilted up and a wary and terrified expression on his face. He looked as though he were ready to drop Napoleon if Illya made a noise to loud.  
He’d gone through so much shit and here he stood, grasping onto the only link to normality that he could remember.

“I would have rather you had a prostitute show up last night,” said Napoleon tightly, face going pink as he stood still in the grip. “Your friend does not appear to like me.”  
Illya ignored him. It was a fragile situation and as much as Napoleon irritated him with his manner and the never-ending allure of his voice, he feared that if he responded Bucky may panic and crush his neck. He didn’t want Solo dead.

So, carefully, Illya removed his gun from his belt and pushed it away. Bucky didn’t much loosen his grip, but he bit his crooked tooth into the bottom of his lip and his eyes darted between Napoleon and Illya almost frantically. 

“Bucky,” Illya said carefully. Bucky stared at him and begun mouthing something to himself. Illya didn’t know how to calm him, the situation, so he tried the last words they’d shared. “Zvezda moya?”

It was like when he had collapsed at the spat word of Sputnik. His arm suddenly loosened from Napoleon’s throat and like one of those toys which collapsed at the press of thumb against button, his knees buckled and he fell to the floor. He pressed his hands into his hair and dug his nails into his scalp.

Napoleon scrambled away, rubbing his hand frantically against his throat and breathing in a way so laboured Illya could almost feel his pain in himself. Illya would have gone to him if not for the nod at Bucky that Napoleon made as he tried to breathe regularly once more. 

Illya fell to his knees in front of Bucky and he grabbed his hands from his head and pulled them together between his, pressing a brief kiss to his knuckles. Bucky looked up at hi, his eyes filed with anguish, underneath he wore thick reminders of how little he slept. His chin was scruffy with stubble and he had little scars on his temples. He looked so pitiful and Illya felt his heart shattering as he gathered Bucky into his arms and held his head into his chest, stroking through his messy, greasy hair until his fingers felt rank with dirt.  
Bucky sniffled into his chest, face pressing hard into his collarbone before he wrapped an arm around Illya’s waist and held on as though he were his anchor. And then they just sat there. Illya could not tell how long they sat and held one another for, but in that time he knew that HYDRA had broken Bucky, truly. Where once Bucky Barnes had been beaming smiles and happy smacking of kisses, now all he was was paranoid glances back and forth as though he watched a yo-yo and shaking fingers. He wondered what it was like too truly break a man, he wondered if HYDRA felt an remorse for ruining Bucky Barnes or if it was just remorse that he had gotten away. 

He spoke in an accent not Russian and not quite American. “You… you must… please,” he said, slumping back from Illya’s arms and wrapping himself in his own. He pressed his chin into his knees and his bottom lip quivered. “Please help me find… help me find Steve…”

So he knew. 

“Bucky,” Illya murmured, frowning at the other. He reached a hand forwards and Bucky grasped it between his own. “Zvezda moya.”

He repeated it. 

“I know you… I know you’re not Steve,” said Bucky pathetically, wringing at Illya’s hand in his nervous habit. “I know, but… but you must help me.”

It was then that Napoleon spoke up, his voice wheezing and obviously only the result of pain and effort. His poor face was coloured pink and his hair was hanging messy over his forehead. Illya wanted to check on him, touch at his bruised throat and make him feel better. He looked back to Bucky. “Steve?”

Bucky looked up immediately, his eyes flashing with a life like they had before at the warehouse. “Yes,” he said, and desperately rushed towards Napoleon. “Yes. Steve Rogers…”

“Captain America?” wheezed Napoleon. 

Illya did not know who he was talking about, but then he supposed he wasn’t much into the modern culture. Napoleon had been shocked to find out he didn’t know about the space race between their two countries. But still, Bucky shook like he knew who Napoleon spoke of, and they both looked remorseful. Illya stayed on the floor, kneeling on the wooden slats of the little French hotel. He now felt like he was the intruder. 

“Yes,” agreed Bucky, grabbing onto Napoleon’s hand and begging with his eyes. He looked like a puppy, one kicked to the ground by harsh boot too often. Napoleon, though still pink and bruised, let him hold onto his fingers. “Do you know…? “

Napoleon looked remorseful as his fingers tightened in Bucky’s and his eyes cast downwards. Illya had never seen that sorry look on his partner’s face before and he found it odd and not at all comforting. He felt like he was about to deliver some bad news and Illya didn’t want Bucky to have to deal with that on top of everything else. He didn’t deserve it. But Illya stayed quiet, because Bucky looked like he would beg sooner than let this subject drop. 

Maybe Napoleon would know where Steve Rogers the apparent Captain America was. Maybe they could reunite him and Bucky. Maybe it would all be a happily ever after. Illya doubted it. 

“HYDRA forces reversed the serum at the end of World War Two,” said Napoleon, his mouth flattening into a line. “Ever since, nobody has known the whereabouts of Steve Rogers… HYDRA returned him, but he was small and weak and soon, he slipped underneath the radar and nobody has found him since.”

And in a devastating moment of silence, Bucky let out a gasping sob. His last lifeline was being snapped right in front of him, and he collapsed, once more, to the floor. Illya and Napoleon left him to sob. 

They would find Steve Rogers; it was just a matter of how long it would take.

**Author's Note:**

> please tell me what you think !! 
> 
> I am also on tumblr at docbossybeck <333 tell me what you think.
> 
> Can also be read here: http://docbossybeck.tumblr.com/post/135206971908/iskat


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